


So You Smile.

by wonker8



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: 2nd POV, Because there's more than just one kind of way to deal with grief, Dealing with the aftermath of the Invasion, Gen, also because Clint's kind of BAMF like that, and sometimes having a friend is rather important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-20
Updated: 2012-08-20
Packaged: 2017-11-12 12:54:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonker8/pseuds/wonker8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He didn't need an army. He just needed you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	So You Smile.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for [Avengerskink Prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/9218.html?thread=19492610#t19492610), in which an agent didn't lose anyone during the Invasion and doesn't hold a grudge against Clint, which causes the archer to spend more and more time with him. The only problem? The agent has a mental breakdown because he actually does have issues with Clint.

He’s standing next to you again.

It’s kind of worrisome, but you decide to take it all in stride. After all, not many have forgiven him since the… _Invasion_ , and they’re not exactly offering him flowers or peace offerings. You sort of get it, except not really. You’ve never been mind-controlled. You’ve never been forced to stand by the enemy’s side, shooting down your fellow agents. You’ve never given out the agency’s secrets willingly.

So no. In that sense, you don’t get it.

But you do understand the need of space. You understand the hate-filled glances aimed at him, and you understand needing a breather from that. So you smile at him, because he looks like he needs one, and you don’t really have a reason why not. He didn’t shoot your spouse because you don’t have one. He didn’t kill your best friend because your friends were all on a ground base. He didn’t kill anyone important to you, because you weren’t even supposed to be assigned to the helicarrier until you were, two hours before the helicarrier took off.

Everyone close to you is still on the ground.

Maybe they’ll be transferred up here, too, because SHIELD is rather short-handed. But at this moment in time, you don’t exactly have any friends or someone to just talk to. Because everyone here is too busy mourning or repairing or doing something that relates straight back to the Invasion, they don’t have time for someone new like you, even if you aren’t a new recruit and you’ve been at this agent business for as long as Sitwell has.

So yeah, you get Barton’s feeling of loneliness.

You get it so much that it kind of hurts sometimes. So you smile and let him stand next to you, because if that’s going to make the archer feel better, then why the fuck not? It’s not like people are lining up to be your friend either.  
*  
The distaste for Barton is starting to extend towards you. But you don’t mind. You just take it in stride. Because even if this is a type of bullying and kind of childish, you can’t help but to think of it as human contact. It’s better than people ignoring you because they don’t really know you or because you don’t understand the grief that they’re going through.

At least now, people are noticing you.  
*  
You’re in the range, getting in the mandatory amount of hours of shooting in. You’re missing the target to the point that it’s kind of comical, and you can hear the sniggers of other agents behind you. It’s not important, you tell yourself. Because, hey, you’re a desk agent, not someone who goes around shooting people with guns. And why guns, anyways? They’re always so messy and gross. You’d rather be using your daggers and Ren, your taser gun.

But you can’t stop the flushing of your cheek and the clenching of your jaws as someone makes a jeer behind you. When the next two rounds spiral out of control and way off the target map, you sigh and give up, pulling the earmuffs off with a simple tug. This just isn’t working out.

“You’re too tense.”

You glance up and realize that it’s Barton. He’s leaning against the wall, staring up at the ceiling in an almost awkward manner. The other agents’ laughter and jives have long stopped, and there’s silence in the range except for the occasional gunfire. You cock your head to the side, waiting for Barton to expand.

“You also jerk your hand up when you fire. It’s why you keep missing the target.”

Barton pushes off the wall and hand out his hand. “May I?”

With a simple nod, you hand the gun and earmuffs over. He doesn’t put them on. He just takes the gun, aims, and fires. Then he turns to you. “See? You can’t just pull the trigger. You have to squeeze it.”

He returns the gun to you and motions for you to return to shooting. You try to follow his advice, but there are a million and ten other things that you’d rather be doing than shooting at targets. It’s obvious that you don’t really get it, but Barton stands with you and guides you. He’s surprisingly patient and gentle, and you’re starting to think that shooting with a gun isn’t so bad.

And you’re starting to get why Barton was chosen out of everyone to be Loki’s lackey.  
*  
You’re a simple agent. A simple, no-name, low-leveled agent that’s never going to be promoted out of office work because your aim is terrible and you can’t shoot a gun right for the sake of your life, even with Barton’s guidance.

Or at least that’s what you’ve been telling yourself for the last eight years you’ve worked with SHIELD. Because it makes sense in your head. You’re not really reliable and you can’t really fight very well. You’re better off doing paperwork. And after eight years of it, you’d like to believe that you’re rather good at that at the very least.

“Sir?” you ask, eyes wide as you stare at the Director with a look that’s a cross between a dying rabbit and a crazed chimpanzee.

“You heard me,” Director Fury replies, looking a little ill at promoting someone as incompetent as you. “You’re going with Barton as his handler.”

“But surely there are others more… qualified than I?” Your voice hits a strangely high pitch and you can’t help but to flinch at the sound.

The way the vein on Fury’s forehead pops tells you that there are indeed people who are more qualified than you. Then there’s only one answer as to why you’ve been chosen for this, isn’t there?

Barton wants you as his handler.  
*  
They’re glaring at you. And you get it. You fucking get it.

They envy you for this promotion. They’re angry at Fury for giving it. But most importantly, they hate Barton for forcing SHIELD to promote someone like you. They hate the fact that Barton’s that good. That SHIELD has to keep Barton, even if it means awarding someone like you to a higher position. They hate it because without Barton, SHIELD would suffer a rather crippling blow to its power. Because everyone knows that not only can he shoot everything on target, but that he can also strategize and _think_. He’s one of the higher levels of SHIELD and one of Fury’s most trusted for many good reasons.

And even if they hate him, they can’t do much about it. Just go on hating him in the background.

But you’re different. You’re tangible. You can be picked on, hated, and even pushed around. You let them, because it’s only right. Because you didn’t deserve to be promoted. Because this treatment at least affirms the belief that you exist. Because without it, you’re just another no-name, low-leveled agent without a single human contact.  
*  
The feeling of worthlessness roots in firmly and grows rather largely during the op.

You’re on the comm with Hawkeye and Fury (because the director needs to make sure that you don’t completely mess up). And you have no idea what you’re doing. You don’t know what you’re supposed to say or what you’re supposed to do. You’re completely out of your element, and it’s obviously bothering Fury judging by the looks he’s sending you.

But Hawkeye takes it in stride. He jokes over the comms, trying to make you relaxed as he dodges bullets that you should have warned him was coming. He laughs off the wounds that he wouldn’t have gotten if you hadn’t hesitated with the kill order. He reports back that everything’s fine, and he completes the mission despite your reluctances, your bumbling, your mistakes.

He smooths over the mess you’ve made and turns the mission into a fucking success. You don’t need Fury’s eye boring into you to tell you what you already know.  
*  
Barton finds you in the locker room. Someone’s spilled tomato juice all over your things, and you’re just trying to wash it out. He walks in and stills at the sight of the red-stained shirt.

“Are you hurt?” is automatically out of his mouth.

You chuckle a little at that. “Just tomato juice. I was clumsy.”

He nods stiffly, and you already know that he knows. But it’s not like he can do anything about it, right?  
*  
You’re wrong. He can do something about it. And it goes on to show just how much you know about the agent if he’s willing to face the wrath of the other agents’ anger just to make them stop pouring tomato juice on your stuff. You don’t know what he said to them or what he did, but they did stop it. But the thing is they also stop everything.

There are no more intense glares when you walk into a room. There are no more harsh remarks when you pass them in the hall. There are no more dirty looks, no more mocking laughter, and no more pranks. It’s as if you’ve suddenly cease to exist. And suddenly, you feel like you’re gasping just to breath. There just isn’t enough oxygen in the air, and you feel like you’re drowning in the ocean that is Clint Barton.

You can’t take it anymore.  
*  
Barton is not in the cafeteria. He’s not in the break room. He’s not in his quarters. He’s not in medical. He’s not in any of the bathrooms. And worst of all, he’s not on the range.

It’s almost as if he’s disappeared off the face of the earth. You try to ask around, but most people just look around frightened whenever you approach them and don’t help with anything. It leaves you alone and that’s the worst kind of feeling right now. So you desperately try to look through the helicarrier, starting from one end and making your way to the other.

At midnight, you’re too tired of this. Tired and frustrated and annoyed and so many other emotions boil inside of you. So slowly, you make your way to your quarters. Then stop.

Your office. You have paperwork that you haven’t looked at because you were too busy trying to find Barton. With a groan so loud that it probably disturbed someone’s sleep, you stumble away from your room and towards your office.  
*  
You’re not even supposed to have an office. It’s something that followed you during the promotion. You’re given a small office the size of a storage closet with a desk and stacks and stacks of paper like which you’ve never seen before. If this is the amount of work handlers have to go through every day, no wonder so many of them quit.

The door gives way and you walk in. Paperwork waits for you on your desk. A heavy sigh leaves your mouth and you slump down on your chair. Grabbing the first piece of paper, you bring it close to your face to try to read it.

And promptly drop the paper.

Suddenly more alert, you start scanning through all the papers. Every single one of them is filled out in neat, bold handwriting that is clearly not yours. You don’t need to ask who must have done this. You know instinctively.

Barton.

Clint Barton and his disappearing act. Clint Barton the great teacher. Clint Barton the agent who practically single-handedly brought down the SHIELD’s helicarrier. Clint Barton who never misses a target. Clint Barton who apparently can now fill out paperwork perfectly.

Clint fucking Barton.

A scream tears from your mouth and before you know it, you’re throwing the papers across the room. You hurl the office supply all around, you kick at the desk, you throw the chair. You knock over the desk lamp and curse and curse. Then you’re back to kicking and screaming and throwing and ripping things apart, trashing the whole room in general. You ignore the way your foot throbs painfully from the repeated kicking. You ignore the way your muscles scream, the way the whole world seems to rise and fall, spinning around in a way that makes no sense at all.

Who knows how long you’ve been in there, throwing and yelling? All you know is that one moment, you’re banging the lamp against the wall repeatedly, and in the next, someone grabs your hand and gently pries the lamp out of your hands.

“What are you doing? Are you okay?”

Fucking Barton.

You shove him away or at least try to. But his grip is strong, firm. And he doesn’t let go. He just holds you, telling you to breath. Telling you to calm down. Asking what’s wrong.

“ _You_!” The word rips out of your mouth and you can’t hold it back anymore. “It’s always fucking you! You and your perfect smiles, perfect aim! You and your ability to laugh even when wounded, even when the mission’s falling apart. You and your goddamned paperwork! You! It’s you!”

“What…? I’m not sure I follow-”

You thrash against his hold. You kick out with your legs and you struggle against his hold. “Eight fucking years! I sat by as others were promoted! Others who deserved the promotion. Others who were actually qualified for it! Then you come along and within days I’m suddenly promoted when I couldn’t manage one in eight fucking years? Do you know how much that burns?”

“No! Of course you don’t! Because you’re fucking perfect! You can fire a fucking _arrow_ in the dark and hit the bullseye while doing a somersault when I’m considered lucky if I even graze a stationary target! You can fill out paperwork perfectly when even I still have trouble remembering what’s what, despite the fact that that’s all I’ve ever done in eight years! You can strategize and I don’t even know why the fuck you need a handler, because you’re completely fine even without it!”

“And you know why everyone’s always dodging you? It ain’t because you’ve betrayed us and you killed those important to them! It’s all because we fucking know what you can do! It’s because they’re fucking scared of you! When Loki took you, it was because you’re the best of the best! He didn’t need an army. He just needed you!”

There’s silence in the room after your rant. Silence except for your ragged breathing. Blood is rushing through your veins and you can hear your heart hammer in your ears. You wonder if Barton can hear it. And maybe he can, because his grip on your arms relaxes. Then he’s no longer holding you. He slowly backs away, his face twisting into an expression that seems to be unable to decide whether it wants to laugh or to cry.

He looks vulnerable, and it’s a frigging low blow, because fuck. What did you just do? Barton’s just trying to be a good friend. And you just…

But the deed is done.

Barton’s gone in the time you blink. All that’s left is the mess of the office room around you and a deep hollowness in your heart. What have you done?  
*  
You beg and plead until you’re reassigned back on ground. Fury allows it.

You don’t see Barton at all during the transfer.  
*  
The next time you see Barton is a year later on the news.

Hawkeye is with the Avengers, laughing and joking with them. He looks much better now. Like probably what he looked like before the whole mess with the Invasion and Loki and all that. He has saved the world again with his new team by his side.

You think it’s rather fitting. The best agents SHIELD have with a group of superheroes. You don’t really know about Natasha to judge, but you know that Clint is a perfect fit. He has a heart of gold, and he tries to help others to the best of his abilities, whether he gets hurt in the process or not. And that’s not even starting on all the other perfection that is Clint Barton. If there’s any human who should be on a superteam, it’s Clint Barton.

And isn’t that a little ironic?

Because just a year ago, Barton was the most hated (or perhaps feared is a better world) agent in SHIELD. And now, he’s flying free with a new team who accepted him.

You shake your head with wonder and turn back to your work. More paperwork. Your writing isn’t as neat or as perfect as Barton’s was a long time ago, but you’re improving. It’s taken you nine years with SHIELD, but you’ve finally been promoted by your own power, your own qualifications. No Barton to pull the strings. Just a memory of a jaded friendship that acts as your motivator.

And if anyone ever questions Hawkeye’s placement on the Avengers or Agent Barton’s qualification, you’re the first to defend him.

It’s the least you can do for the agent. The least you can do to an old friend who deserved better.

So you smile.


End file.
